


Silentium Amoris

by orphan_account



Series: In Endless Dance [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chan, Codependency, Domestic Violence, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rape, Rape/Non-con References, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Valentine's Day at Hogwarts. Louis reflects on all the reasons he detests the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silentium Amoris

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warnings:** Domestic Violence, Abuse, Self-Harm, Underage, Codependency Issues, Incest.

It is Valentine's Day at Hogwarts, and everywhere there is love-hearts and flowers, cupids and chocolates, pink and white and red confetti. Louis hates Valentine's Day with a burning passion. He catches Albus's eye, bright-green and hollow, from across the room, and is swiftly reminded why: He knows he'll never be able to express the love he feels for Albus so frankly; not like the rest of them can.

When he thinks about Albus, the last thing to symbolize their love would be maudlin love-hearts and stuffed animals, cute little candies or flowers; what is between them is something dark and nameless; twisted, and unfettered by age, flesh, or even their shared blood. It is transcendental. Louis doubts there is anything, anywhere, in this world or the next with the power to rip them apart. No thought has ever given him greater comfort, or scared him so profoundly.

In front of him, strewn all over the Gryffindor table, is a massacre of ripped white envelopes. This year's haul is even larger than the last—most of the Valentines he has received are signed, rather brazenly, by numerous Gryffindor girls, most of whose names he can't quite put a face to. He makes a mental note to thank the girls he does remember. He feels it is the least he can do; their devotion to him is touching considering he's never shown any of them an ounce of interest.

He piles the cards into a stack and pushes them away from him, wishing vaguely that they'd somehow disappear so he wouldn't have to look at them, and tries to catch Albus's eye again. His fingers tighten around his silver goblet when he can't. His younger cousin's attention is, for the moment, diverted—the slender boy is currently embroiled in a half-hearted squabble with his brother, James, who is bragging loudly about their disparate number of Valentines and flicking peas into his little brother's face with a fork.

Watching them, Louis's mood darkens, like a black cloud has settled over his head. A fierce rush of protectiveness lances through him and he wants to leap up, over the table, and slam James's smug little face into his moderately-sized pile of Valentine's cards. Louis loves James, and would never hurt him, but when the mischievous boy goes and does something that makes Albus look the way he does right now, there is no limit to what Louis would do in honor of the boy he loves.

Still, he knows that if he causes a scene, Albus will almost certainly make him pay for it later. With this in mind, he sets his jaw and stares up at the enchanted ceiling above, wilfully ignoring the mayhem going on around him. It is snowing heavily outside, and the dome overhead looks like the inside of a deep well, black and bottomless. Fragile flakes of snow drift lazily from the sky, and it all looks so very real that Louis almost sticks out his tongue to taste one.

"You never get tired of looking at that, do you, Louis?"

Startled, Louis tears his eyes away from the ceiling to find a pretty girl, with placid brown eyes and a warm smile, watching him thoughtfully from across the table, chin in her palm. He knows she's in the year below him but is embarrassed to find he can't remember her name. "No," he tells her with a small smile, and watches as a blush rises in her pale skin. "It's far too beautiful to tire of; don't you think?"

After dinner he very nearly trips over his feet in his mad rush for Albus. He pines for the boy with a physical ache; needs him with each and every fibre of his being. Every cell in his body lives and thrives for Albus; each nerve within him is so finely attuned to the other boy's presence that, whenever he is close, Louis  _feels_  him before he even lays eyes upon him.

Lost in a sea of excitable students, Louis can no longer see the boy, but knows he is close—there is a twisting sensation in his gut, like live snakes are writhing about inside his belly, chewing on his insides, and at once he senses that something is wrong. How exactly he knows this, he can't quite tell.

He lingers by one of the suits of armour and waits for Albus to pass him by. When eventually he does, Louis darts out boldly, uncaring who sees them, and fists a bunch of the smaller boy's robes, hauling him behind the armour and out of sight. "What's the matter?" is the first thing that tumbles out of his mouth. Anxiously, he searches Albus's face. There is something dark and poisonous between them, Louis can feel it. He's been feeling it for weeks. The look on Albus's face only serves to tell him he's right.  

He glares up at Louis with those vivid green eyes of his, face alight with fury, and shoves Louis away from him. "Don't stand there," he begins, voice loud and uneven as it echoes throughout the cavernous entrance hall, "and pretend like you don't already know."

Stumbling backward and losing his footing, Louis catches his shoulder on the wall behind him and winces in pain. Fuming, he growls, "What the hell was that for? Why are you  _shouting_  at me?" He rubs his tender shoulder and hopes to God there's no one around to hear this.

Albus balls his delicate little hands into fists and scowls. "Rose says you've been talking to that girl behind my  _back_!" he spits, face red with rage and eyes glassy with tears. "Yes, I saw you at dinner," he adds with a sneer. "The pair of you looked so darn  _sweet_  together I nearly puked all over my dessert. Perhaps you can even take her out next Hogsmeade weekend? I know your mother would just love that. Tell me, is the pressure to find yourself a nice little girlfriend finally getting to you, Louis?"

Louis lets out a loud snort of laughter. He can't help himself. Albus looks positively scandalized by this, and with a low growl, lifts a hand to strike Louis. Louis catches the boy's fist before it can connect with his face and twists it behind his back. "Stop that," he orders, seriously now, and tightens his fingers around Albus's wrist. "You're being ridiculous and you know it. Has hitting me ever solved anything before?"

Albus tries fruitlessly to squirm away from him. Giving up, he lets his arm go limp and snarls, " _I'm_  being ridiculous? What about when you hit me? It's different then, isn't it? It's always different when it's you!"

The bitter memory of their most recent fight, in which Louis had struck out at Albus and bruised his face, caused his nose to bleed, hangs over Louis's mind like rancid smoke. Anger at himslef and Albus llashes through him like a burning whip, and he digs his fingernails into the fleshy part of Albus's wrist, eliciting a loud yelp. "Well," Louis breathes, face so close to Albus's now he can smell his skin, "you deserved it, didn't you?" This is what he tells himself almost every night. Albus had lied to Louis that night, provoked his temper—the entire fight had been caused by  _him_.

"Stop it!" Albus squeals. "Let me go!"

A thrill of lust shoots through Louis, as it always does when Albus struggles against him like this, and he tightens his fingers. "You know I don't like to hurt you, Albus," he says in a low voice, "but sometimes it's as if you're just ...  _begging_  me for it."

Albus's nostrils flare with the force of his breathing. Up close his skin is perfect and pore-less, like polished marble. "I love you, Louis," he whispers, like he means the direct opposite. What he wants to say is  _I hate that I love you. I'd do anything to make it stop._

Caught off-guard, Louis relaxes his grip a little and Albus lets out a breath, closing his eyes. "I love you too," Louis tells him without preamble. "Always. But you  _are_ being ridiculous," he bristles. "You don't need to be so jealous all the time; I'm not talking to anyone behind your back. That girl—at dinner?" He lowers his voice to a murmur. "I don't even know her name, Albus. And if you really were watching us, you'd have seen I only said about two sentences to her. She means nothing to me. I wouldn't leave you for the world; you know that." His heartfelt reassurances don't have the intended effect on Albus; the boy still looks furious with him.

Albus folds his arms across his chest and turns his head, jaw firmly set. "No, I don't," he argues, petulantly. "I don't know anything. All you ever do is flirt with other people, never mind how I feel. You're so conceited, Louis, and I hate you for it. You think being good-looking gives you the right to go flouncing about like you're better than everyone else, soaking up all the attention—"

With a low growl, Louis has his hands around Albus's throat before he realizes what he's doing, has him slammed up against the wall, crushing and squeezing the life out of him. "Why do you say these things?" he demands of the other boy, voice breaking, and shakes Albus by the neck, so forcefully the dark-haired boy hits the back of his head against the wall.

He strains for breath; tears stream down that pretty face, and the sight of it breaks Louis's heart. But he can't stop himself. All he wants to do is hurt Albus the way Albus has hurt him, even if he knows it'll never be enough: as though his tongue was made of acid, Albus is capable of astonishing acts of cruelty using just his words, cruelty Louis can't possibly match. All he has is violence; the ability to easily overcome Albus physically. Lately he's come to almost enjoy the sense of power this gives him and he hates himself for it.

"I don't think I'm better than anyone!" he tells Albus through gritted teeth, and shakes the boy harder still. It's like manhandling a ragdoll—he is so light; so breakable. "And you know I don't want it, any of it!"

Albus's beautiful skin turns from porcelain-white to red to ash-grey to blue with remarkable swiftness. Louis knows that if he doesn't stop choking the boy soon, he'll probably kill him. With a sob, he releases Albus's throat and slumps forward, resting his forehead against the boy's shoulder. "All I want is you," he says in a muffled voice, and envelopes Albus, who is spluttering and wheezing and fighting to catch his breath, in his arms and holds him close. "All I want is you..."

Still gasping for breath, Albus loops his arms around Louis's neck and threads a hand through his hair. "Louis," he says, his voice a dry whisper, "it hurts." Louis knows he isn't just talking about his throat, but everything.

"I know," Louis says. "I know. I'm sorry. You just... You make me so angry sometimes. Why do you have to do that?"

Albus doesn't answer him, and a wave of panic strikes Louis's heart. Sometimes he thinks Albus will give up on him any day now; that he'll finally tire of the heartache—of having to keep every look, touch, or whispered word a secret—and leave Louis destitute and alone without him; with nothing.

Louis needs Albus, loves him, too much to ever let that happen.

He draws away from his cousin and takes a deep, uneven breath, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe. It is remarkable how quickly Albus can reduce him to tears. He stares down at the boy's face in the warm, flickering torchlight, and brushes the back of his hand across that silky-smooth skin. Albus matches his gaze with intensity, chest rising and falling harshly with the force of his breathing, and Louis can see flames reflected in his eyes.

"If you ever leave me," Louis reminds the boy steadily, softly, "I'll kill you."

Albus's gaze is unwavering in the silence. He covers Louis's hand with his own and says, "I wouldn't leave you. And don't talk like that," he adds in a whisper, pushing his fingers through Louis's. "You sound completely mental." He lets out a weak laugh, and Louis can't tell whether he sounds exhausted or scared.

Louis's breath catches in his throat. He wants to shake Albus again, to scream,  _You made me this way!_  but somehow, manages to restrain himself. Instead he rubs a thumb over Albus's pillowy lower-lip, and leans forward to kiss the boy's forehead. "I won't be without you," he utters, and squeezes Albus's hand. "You'll always be mine; whatever it takes."

Albus hooks an arm around Louis's waist and rests his head in the crook of his neck. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he sighs, and the feel of those warm lips moving against his skin sends electric shivers down Louis's spine. "But it's Valentine's Day, my Louis—don't you want to show me how much you love me? I don't want to fight with you. Please, not today."

Louis refrains from pointing out to Albus that it was, in fact,  _him_  who started the row in the first place, and says instead, "Alright, but I-I didn't get you anything. I'm sorry. I didn't know today would be important to you. You always said you hated Valentine's Day as much as I do."

"Well maybe I've changed my mind." Albus leans back to stare at him, biting his lip. "And I don't want presents," he adds with a sulky frown, "I want  _you_." He punctuates  _you_ by arching into Louis's embrace and rolling his hips suggestively. His eyes darken with lust as he loops his arms around Louis's waist and draws him closely to his body. "Fuck me?"

Trembling, Louis trails his fingerstips over Albus's throat, chest and stomach, and tries not to give in to the urge to strike the boy again, just for this. Louis despises that Albus has grown so wanton, that he's lost everything about himself that was innocent. He misses the way things used to be: when everything was new and thrilling and sacred to them both, not depraved and filthy the way it is now.

A voice at the back of Louis's mind says,  _But it was you who made him this way. He looked up to you, worshipped you, and you corrupted him. He doesn't know how else to express himself, and it's all because of you. You took away his innocence; you ruined him. Everything that happens now, everything he does, is down to you._

He knows it's true. Albus is guilty of a lot of things. Being a whore isn't one of them.

He checks to make sure they are completely alone before he drags Albus by the hand into the nearest broom closet—thankfully, it's only a few feet away—and shuts and locks the door behind them. He doesn't bother with casting a  _Lumos_ , or even conjuring a candle so that they might see each other: For what they're about to do, it's better if he can't see his cousin's deceptively guileless face staring up at him as they do the most depraved things to one another. As much as he wants to fuck Albus—and he does—Louis doesn't want to have to think about the look on the boy's face afterwards: not when he's alone and trying to convince himself he's not the most wicked creature who ever walked the earth.

He unzips his own trousers before he finds Albus's belt-buckle in the dark and expertly unhooks his trousers, yanking them down around his knees, and pushes the boy's heavy woollen robes up over slender hips.

"Is this what all that was about?" Louis asks breathlessly, pushing spit-slick fingers inside Albus's body. "You wanted to get me angry enough to fuck you like this, didn't you?"

Albus gives a little whimper and latches on tightly to Louis, his arms so tight around his neck he's making it difficult to breathe. "No, but you—" His breath catches in his throat and he swallows hard— "You would have done it anyway, Louis. I always get my way with you..."

With a low growl, Louis lifts the boy in his arms and slams him into a shelf. Several unidentifiable objects crash loudly to the floor. He kicks them out of the way and grabs the back of Albus's head, kissing him so hard their teeth knock together. He touches the boy between the legs—Albus is hard and wet, always as desperate for this as Louis is, even when he likes to pretend that he's not—before he spits into his own hand and rubs it over his cock.

There's no time for more careful preparation. He knows he's going to hurt Albus, but it's too late for either of them to stop. Albus needs to be taught a lesson, and Louis... well, Louis just  _needs_ this.

Stroking himself with one hand, he cups Albus cheek and kisses him with tenderness, gently nipping at those soft lips, mapping them with his tongue, before he forces Albus bodily to the floor, onto his hands and knees.

"Louis?" Albus asks in a small voice, tone full of uncertainty. They've never done it quite like this before. He sounds frightened.

Ignoring him, Louis twists the boy's arm behind his back, eliciting a loud squeak, and digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Albus's hips, pushing into him with little to no care. He fucks him with brute force then, ignoring the sniffling and muted little cries of pain he hears beneath him. Instead he channels the entirety of his frustration into using Albus's tight body—it can't really be called sex, he thinks. It is more a show of power. He wants his cousin to remember who is in charge here, even if it tears him apart. He can't be any other way with Albus. All he wants is to prove, over and over again, that the boy belongs to him. 

He can feel the skin of Albus's forearm beneath his fingers now, where the sleeve of the boy's robe has ridden up. It doesn't feel right—not soft and smooth as it should be, but sticky, uneven and hot. Louis's stomach tightens and he stops what he's doing, breathing hard, and pulls out of the boy, gasping for breath. As he does, Albus lets out a pained little cry.

"What have you done to yourself?" Louis demands of him, forcing the waif of a boy onto his back. Louis holds him down with a hand around his throat.

Albus doesn't answer him for a long while. When he does his voice is weak: "I did it for you," he whispers, sniffling. "I love you, Louis. You don't know how much."

Louis whispers a charm under his breath and a glowing ball of orange light appears above them. Albus looks a mess: His face is tear-streaked and pale, eyes bright like jewels in his face. His lips are red and bitten, trembling with emotion, and Louis can't remember the last time he saw his cousin look so vulnerable; like the child he is.

It makes him want to die.

He snatches up Albus's arm and examines it in the light. When his mind registers what he is seeing, he feels sick: carved into the boy's smooth white flesh are the letters of Louis's own name, deep and jagged and bloody. Each wound oozes dark droplets of blood. The mutilation is fresh.

"When did you—" Louis pauses to clear his throat, unable to form a full sentence. "When did you do this? I mean—why? Why did you do this? Have you completely lost it, Albus?" He tries to keep his temper in check. After all, this is his doing; he knows it.

Albus lowers his eyes, long eyelashes casting thin streaks of shadow on his face, and says, "It's a present. F-For you. I wanted to give you something today; proof that I belong to you. Something we both could see. I-I thought you'd like it..."

 _Can't you see what you've done to him?_  speaks a sinister voice from the depths of Louis's mind.  _You've destroyed him. Warped his mind. Are you happy now? He's as mad as you are..._

He lets go of Albus's hand and takes an uneven breath. "If I don't heal you," he begins carefully, "everyone is going to see what you've done to yourself. Is that what you want? For people to know? For them to take you away from me?"

Slowly, Albus shakes his head. "N-No," he stutters. "I just wanted you to know how I feel. I'm sorry, Louis," he finishes, sounding miserable. "For everything. I don't know why you put up with me; I know I'm ruining your life. I ruin everything I touch."

Louis feels as if someone has driven a dagger into his heart and twisted it. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he covers Albus's body with his own and kisses him, gently, all over his face. "You're not," he says, and laces his fingers tightly through his cousin's, "ruining my life. And I do like it," he tells the boy honestly, tracing the fresh wounds on Albus's forearm with a fingertip. "I love that you did this for me, it's beautiful. I just wish you wouldn't hurt yourself like this." Eyes downcast, Albus nods.

"Come here," Louis orders him, gently. "Kiss me."

Obediently, Albus tilts his face upward to be kissed, holding Louis's face between his hands and feverishly whispering, "I love you so much, Louis. Tell me you still love me too..."

"I do," Louis whispers back, kissing every inch of Albus's skin he can reach. "I love you. I'm sorry."

And this moment, right here, reminds Louis why it's worth it; every agonizing minute of it. He knows they'll never be a normal couple. He knows they'll never be any good for one another—together, they're a tragedy—but he'll take the blood and madness over hearts and flowers any day. He doesn't want to give up what he has with Albus for anything. Not even if it kills them.

_~Finis~_


End file.
